


Inseparable

by voiceless_terror



Series: childhood friends au [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: As is Jon's grandmother to a certain extent, Gen, Jon and Martin Meet as Children, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, M/M, Martin's Mother is Canonically Terrible, Some bullying, TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021 (The Magnus Archives), but goes up to season one, childhood AU, happy/hopeful ending, precanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/pseuds/voiceless_terror
Summary: “You can stay.” The voice interrupts his internal panic, and he looks over to find Jon studiously avoiding his gaze, staring hard at a neighboring bush. Martin wonders what caused his sudden change of heart. “But you have to sit on the other side. And don’t talk to me.”Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood meet as children. Some things change, others do not.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: childhood friends au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164257
Comments: 124
Kudos: 645
Collections: TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [readingpower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/readingpower/gifts).



> For the prompt: Jon and Martin childhood friends au! Either how they meet and become  
> friends, or how their friendship affects the events at the archives

As expected, he’s going to have to eat lunch alone.

Martin surveys the school yard, the teacher behind him smiling with encouragement. It’s nice that they let them go outside, sitting alone at a table in the cafeteria seemed far more intimidating than finding a tree or a bush he could hide behind. He’s getting better at making himself small.

It’s a bright, warm day and the sun beats down on his face, he’s going to need a shady spot. He spies a tree on the far edge of the grounds; it’s tall and thick, a perfect place to hide away. He trudges down the slight incline, his bagged lunch held tight in his fist. Maybe if he asks nicely his mum will get him a lunchbox. But this’ll do for now. He’s about to sit down in a small nook of roots when a disgruntled voice pipes up from behind the tree.

_“Hey!”_

Martin can barely see the boy’s scowling face but he recognizes him from class: Jonathan Sims. He’s a scrawny kid almost half his size, but that doesn’t make him any less intimidating. Jon always raises his hand in class and interrupts others when they have the wrong answer. The other students snicker but Jon pays them no mind, more interested in getting out all the information stored in his head. Martin admires his confidence, but still. He’s a bit scary.

“This is _my_ tree,” he sniffs, patting the ground as if planting a flag. “This is where I eat. _Alone.”_

Martin feels his face burning from more than just the sun. There’s tears forming behind his eyes but he tries desperately to hold them back, the last thing he needs is a reputation as the class crybaby. 

“I’m s-sorry.” He scrambles up, casting his eyes down to the ground if only to avoid Jon’s glare. “I’ll- I’ll find somewhere else, sorry to bother.” A brief scan of the school yard reveals there really is nowhere else, unless he wants to sit in the dirt or out in the sun where everyone can see. Maybe he should find an empty classroom, or a closet or even a _bathroom,_ just to be out of sight. But he doesn’t think the teacher will let him, and she keeps looking over. She probably just saw his rejection, and he really doesn’t want her to come over and embarrass him further. Jonathan Sims already seems to hate him.

“You can stay.” The voice interrupts his internal panic, and he looks over to find Jon studiously avoiding his gaze, staring hard at a neighboring bush. Martin wonders what caused his sudden change of heart. “But you have to sit on the other side. And _don’t_ talk to me.”

He hurries to sit down, afraid the other boy will take it back. “Y-Yes, thank you-”

“I _said_ don’t talk to me!”

Martin closes his mouth, cutting off the ‘sorry’ that’s already spilling from his lips. With one final glare Jon swivels back around, dropping out of sight.

Martin sighs with relief and begins to dig out his soggy peanut butter sandwich. He packed it this morning with the meager supplies in their kitchen; Mum forgot to get the groceries again, he’d have to remind her. She’s been forgetting a lot lately; the move has been hard on the both of them, but especially her. Ever since his father left they’d been moving from town to town, wherever his mum could find work. She’s working at a doctor’s office now, and hence the move to their very small flat a few blocks from school. Once again, he’s the new kid.

And _of course_ no one talks to him. Why would they? Mum always says he’s rubbish with people, that he should try to be more outgoing. It’s not his fault his glasses are too big and his clothes are ill-fitting and he’s awkwardly taller than ‘any seven year old has the right to be’ (his mum’s words). Whenever he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a high-pitched stutter. No, better to be quiet and stay out of everyone’s way. That’s easier. That’s how his Mum likes it at home, why change it up here?

But it doesn’t make it hurt any less. His teachers are nice enough and no one’s bothered him yet. As long as he continues to keep his head down and do his homework, he’ll be fine. Who needs friends, anyway?

And he’s got a spot to eat now. Jon sits on the other side of the tree, just out of sight, saying nothing. But Martin still feels a little less lonely with him here, like they have some sort of silent truce. Jon doesn’t seem to have any friends; in fact, Martin thinks he actually has _enemies._ People shove him in the hallway when they’re standing in line, throw paper balls at him in class, whisper insults audibly behind his back. But Jon never reacts other than a tensing of his shoulders and a pointed look the other way. Martin wishes he could be like that.

Jon lets him sit there for the rest of the week. Martin itches to talk to him, but decides it's easier to keep his promise. Mum likes it when he’s quiet so she doesn’t have to hear his ‘inane chatter.’ Jon probably wants the same.

The next day it rains. He doesn’t know where Jon goes when he can’t sit at his tree. Martin decides to eat at the very end of a lunch table where a few other quiet kids sit. No one talks to him. He’s getting used to it.

It’s too muddy to sit outside for the next few days. No matter where he looks, he can’t find Jon. The teacher doesn’t seem to care much about Jon’s whereabouts. Martin’s heard the word ‘handful’ muttered as the teachers gather in the common space. They just let him do what he wants.

But the next Monday, there he is. Sitting at the tree, a book in hand, his lunch box conspicuously absent. It’s bright yellow with a cat on it; it looks ancient, beat up and scratched as it is. But it’s not there. Martin sits at his usual spot, fidgeting with his lunch bag. _I wonder if he’s hungry._ He hears the crinkle of the library book, the turn of a page. Before he can second guess himself, he gets up and steps to the forbidden other side of the tree.

Jon barely deigns to look up from his book, instead focusing more intently on the pages. Martin shuffles on his feet and fights the urge to run away before clearing his throat.

Jon looks up. “What?” he snaps, clearly irritated at the interruption.

“S-Sorry, I just saw you had no l-lunch and I-” he fumbles around in the bag until he finds what he’s looking for and offers it out to Jon with a shaking hand. “I thought you might be hungry.”

Jon stares at the applesauce like it's bound to leap out and bite him. He looks back up at Martin with a suspiciously gaze, and he fights the urge to swallow nervously. Jon’s eyes are so _large,_ even hidden behind glasses and it’s hard to meet his stare head-on.

“Fine.” A small hand reaches up and snatches it from Martin before he can so much as blink. Jon rips open the lid like a man starving and instead of asking for a spoon, opts to slurp at it like it's some sort of milkshake.

Martin stares at him open-mouthed as Jon scrunches his face in distaste and complains. “Ugh. Who gets applesauce without cinnamon?” He finishes it anyway and hands the crumpled plastic back to Martin in under a minute. He takes it, stupefied, as Jon picks up his book and goes back to reading, once again ignoring Martin. _Well then._

Martin feels like he’s approached a feral cat and come back without a scratch. He takes his usual spot on the other side, mechanically biting into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and wonders if he can convince his mum to buy the good kind of applesauce when he hears the words, barely audible.

“Thank you.” It’s the softest he’s ever heard Jon’s voice go.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, equally as quiet. Jon says nothing else, but Martin will take this as a win. 

* * *

The next morning dawns cloudy with a chance of rain, and Martin knows he’s going to be eating lunch alone again. He drags his feet on his way to class, sitting in his assigned seat at the back of the classroom. His glasses were old and the prescription was out of date, but his mother didn’t have the money to take him to the doctor for new ones and he didn’t want to bother. This resulted in a lot of squinting and more than a few headaches. 

Jon sits in front of him. He bounces in his seat a lot, crossing and uncrossing his legs, even when he’s told to sit still and he’s always scribbling something in his notebook. It’s very distracting.

Today he keeps glancing back, giving Martin a weird look. Is there something on his shirt? It’s a little wrinkly, Mum left it in the dryer too long, but it’s not _that_ bad. Finally he gets his answer when Jon turns around fully, slipping a folded up piece of paper across his desk. 

“Jon! Face front, please.” He turns right around, not sparing Martin a second glance.

He tentatively opens the crumpled piece of paper to find a surprisingly good doodle of a tree; the trunk and leaves are very detailed, if a bit weirdly-sized. He wishes he could draw like that. And underneath the drawing, in a barely legible script, were the words _Our Tree._

Jon doesn’t look at him for the rest of the day and he disappears at lunch. Martin takes the note home and puts it in his desk drawer with all of his other keepsakes.

* * *

The next lunch, before Jon can disappear again, Martin grabs him by the arm and is almost immediately given an elbow to the gut. He yelps, wheezing from the sudden pain and backing away. But Jon almost immediately follows after him, putting a light hand on his arm. He’s looking at him, his face surprisingly conflicted. Martin’s never seen him look like that.

“Sorry,” he says and it sounds like he means it. “I don’t like it when people surprise me. Are you okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” he manages to get out, shrugging Jon’s hand away. “Sorry I grabbed you. I just- where do you go at lunch? When it rains.”

Jon looks at him thoughtfully, crossing his arms. “The library. I like to read there. But they don’t let you bring food, so we’ll have to hide.” He nods like this is a completely normal thing to do, and begins to walk briskly in the direction of the library. Martin takes this as an invitation to come along.

He’s led to a small table in the back, behind a few stacks of picture books. For some reason Jon doesn’t look like the type to read those, but it’s not like they’ve got anything much more advanced. Jon reaches behind the shelf to pull out a large book simply titled _Dinosaurs_ with an accompanying picture on the front.

“I didn’t want anyone else to take it,” Jon explains, opening to an earmarked page. “Ms. Johnson usually lets me check out a bunch, but I’ve already reached the limit.” He plops down on the ground, ignoring the table and gesturing for Martin to sit beside him. “We have to sit on the floor, else she’ll see your food.”

The floor’s not very comfortable, but this is the most Jon’s ever spoken to him and he doesn’t want him to change his mind. He takes a bite of his sandwich and Jon ignores him, eyes scanning every page as if it’s bound to disappear. 

“Why don’t you have lunch?” he asks, almost instantly regretting it. _He doesn’t want to talk to you._

His eyes never leave the book as he replies, “My nan forgot to pack it.”

Martin blinks. “So you didn’t pack it yourself?”

“I can’t reach the cabinets,” Jon shrugs, turning the page. “Nan doesn’t like it when I climb the chairs.”

So Jon lives with his grandmother. _That’s weird._ But no one should go without lunch, especially someone as little as Jon. You’re supposed to build strong bones or whatever they say on those stupid posters in the cafeteria. So he digs in his pack, fishing out his applesauce and a spoon.

“Here. It’s still not the cinnamon kind, sorry.” Jon finally looks up from his book, eyes wide as if he can’t believe Martin’s offering it. But he’s done this before, why wouldn’t he do it again? Jon doesn’t give him the usual glare, instead gingerly taking the offered cup and spoon and opening it carefully. 

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” he responds. There’s an awkward silence again, and Martin nervously begins to fill it. “My mum never forgets.” He doesn’t know why he says it. First of all, it’s not true: Martin’s been packing his own lunches for the past year. Sometimes he even scribbles a heart on the napkin like he’s seen in other kids’ packs. Second of all, it seems kind of like bragging, now that he thinks about it. It’s not Jon’s fault his nan forgets. And with the way Jon tenses, Martin’s thinking it wasn’t the best thing to say.

“Well, my mum’s dead so she can’t pack my lunches.” Jon slams the book shut and doesn’t meet his eyes as Martin stutters out an apology, heart pounding in his chest at his stupid mistake. 

“I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s _fine.”_ It’s clearly not, because Jon’s standing up, crumpling the plastic cup in his fist. Martin swears he can see a sheen of tears on his furiously blinking eyes but Jon angrily wipes at them, turning away from Martin’s outstretched hand. “I have to go now.” And he’s disappeared behind the stacks, leaving Martin on the floor with his _stupid_ lunch that wasn’t packed by his Mum and wishing he could take back the last minute and a half.

_Good going, Martin. You’ve lost the only kid who can stand you._

* * *

Jon doesn’t talk to him for a week.

Somehow, it’s torture. You think he’d be fine; he spends most of his time alone anyway. But he thought he was making a friend. Now, though, Jon doesn’t talk to him in class, ignores him at their tree. Martin gets yelled at for not paying attention in class. His mum locks him out of the house twice. It’s not her fault, but it feels like she’s sending him a message. He’s unwanted.

On Friday it rains. Martin knows where Jon will be and there he is, hunkered down in his corner and munching on a granola bar. He doesn’t look up as he approaches, but Martin could tell he wasn’t reading. He coughs a bit and still Jon doesn’t engage. Time for a different route.

“My mum doesn’t pack my lunch,” he starts, looking down at his feet. It’s the first time he’s been honest about his home life with anyone, be it child or adult. But with Jon it feels important, like he’d understand. “I do. I don’t know why I said that to you a-and I’m sorry. About your mum.”

There’s a few beats of silence before Martin hears his quiet reply.

“You didn’t know,” he says, finally closing the book and meeting Martin’s eyes. “It’s not your fault. I-I just get upset sometimes, that’s all. Nan always said I can be ‘a bit dramatic.’” He rolls his eyes at this and Martin lets out a little laugh, allowing himself a bit of hope. Maybe they can still be friends.

It’s solidified as Jon pats the ground next to him, and Martin happily takes his place at his side. “I’m reading about Roman Centurions. I don’t know some of the words, but it’s still very interesting.”

“Sounds like it,” Martin agrees, unwrapping his sandwich and trying to contain his glee. “D-Do you want to read me the good bits? O-Only if you like, I mean-” He watches as Jon’s eyes light up, turning the pages excitedly in his hand.

“This is the best part-” Jon reads aloud with surprising skill, like his voice is made for stories. Martin sits and listens to him narrate, he can almost _see_ what he’s describing. Some of the words are mangled or skipped altogether, but Martin’s so spell-bound that he doesn’t realize when the bell rings, or that they’re going to be late for class.

They don’t get back before the bell rings and end up getting a stern dressing down. But it’s worth it.

* * *

Martin _hates_ PE. 

It’s not because he’s particularly bad at it, no. He’s clumsy and he can sometimes get in the way of the faster kids, but he’s _strong._ He can do push-ups, he’s decent at sports, he’s not a bad athlete. The problem is the other kids. He has to talk with them, play with them, work with them as a _team._ And he’s the new kid, so no one really cares to interact with him. He’s often chosen last and having his turns skipped. If he could just prove himself, they’d want him on their team. Martin’s sure of it.

Jon, however, is bad at _everything._

He isn’t strong or tall or coordinated. He flinches away from everyone, covers his face when he needs to catch something. He can sprint, but only for a few moments before he gets winded. Nobody wants him on their team. Even the teacher usually puts him on the bench and the sidelines. Martin tries to cover him when they’re on the same team, and never targets him when they’re on opposite sides. It would feel mean to do that, and all the other kids do it anyway.

This time Jon’s sitting against the wall, watching the other kids play football and wincing every time the ball comes within ten feet of him, which is often. He looks lonely, so Martin feigns a hurt ankle and convinces the gym teacher he doesn’t need to go to the nurse, slipping down beside Jon. 

“You should play if you want to,” Jon mumbles, fidgeting in his spot. “You don’t have to keep me company.”

“You’re more interesting than them,” Martin replies, giving Jon an easy smile. “Besides, Marcus is being a right prick and hogging the ball-”

“Martin!” Jon’s voice is admonishing, but he’s smiling now and that’s all that matters. “Language.” He glowers in an approximation of their stern principal, and Martin laughs at the impression. Jon’s quite good at that.

“I know for a _fact_ you told Peter to ‘bugger off’ yesterday.” He pokes Jon in the side, relishing in his answering squeak. “So that’s not fair.”

“He deserved it!”

“And Marcus doesn’t?”

Jon considers this for a moment. “Actually, yeah. He _is_ a right prick.” They trade commentary for a bit, Martin ragging on his classmates a bit more than he usually would. Jon seems to like it and he always laughs when Martin gets in a particularly mean joke. Jon opens his mouth to respond to one of his better insults when his eyes go wide and he throws his hands in front of his face. Martin turns to see a ball hurtling towards them and a shout of “Look out!” and he instinctively kicks up his foot, sending the ball sailing in the other direction. 

The other direction being Marcus’s face. 

He gasps at Marcus’s yelp of pain and scrambles to his feet, an apology on his lips but Jon tugs him back down, clearly afraid of any backlash. But Marcus is in no mood to fight anyone with the way he’s crying and holding his bloody nose, the other students circling around him. _Oh god, what if I broke it-_

The gym teacher runs over to inspect and his worries are assuaged- she only sends him to the nurse with a calm smile and a reassuring pat on the back. She shoots a glance over at Martin beckons him over, though she doesn’t look too mad. _It’s not_ really _my fault, I suppose._ As he moves to go, Jon _squeezes_ his hand. Martin didn’t even know he was still holding it.

“Martin,” he says, giddiness clear in his voice. “That was _amazing.”_ Jon’s never impressed by anything, _ever_ and it makes Martin glow with pride.

“Yeah,” he replies, squeezing back. “Reckon it was.”

* * *

It gets too cold for outdoor lunches, so Jon and Martin hole up in the library most days.

“We can’t go when Mrs. Evans is here,” he explains one day in the cafeteria, where they’d picked a remote corner of the room. “She hates me.” He gives no further explanation.

But suddenly Jon looks fidgety and not in the frantic sort of way, like when he wants to spew out an answer in class. He’s ripping his sandwich into little shreds and not taking a single bite, a habit Martin finds kind of gross but refuses to say anything about.

“Is something wrong?” he asks instead, pushing forward the other half of his ham sandwich. “If you don’t like it, you can have mine. I’m not that hungry anyway.” That’s not true; he was too busy to have breakfast this morning, dealing with the mess his mum left in the kitchen. She forgot to do the dishes again, but Jon didn’t need to know that.

“No, I don’t want your ham,” he says dismissively, flicking it back. Jon refuses to meet his eyes, and now Martin’s starting to get nervous. Did he do something wrong? Was Jon still mad about Martin breaking his favorite pencil? He didn’t mean to, and he promised he would replace it as soon as Mum-

“I was wondering if you wanted to come over on Wednesday. After school.”

_What?_

Martin stares. Jon wants him to come over? Jon wants to see him outside of school? The thought of it is so strange; he’s heard other kids have sleepovers, have parents who plan birthdays and fix snacks and take their children everywhere. Martin’s always wondered what it would be like to see someone else’s house, but never in a million years did he think-

“It’s fine. You don’t have to.”

“No- I want to!” he hurries to explain, unable to stand the sadness in Jon’s voice. He knew the sting of rejection all too well. And he really, _really_ wants to go. “I just have to ask my mum, is all. She can be a bit strict.”

Jon’s face lights up and Martin almost sighs with relief. “My nan can call, if you like! She’s just happy I’m talking to someone, really. She said we could have the living room all to ourselves.” He leans in, as if sharing a secret. “And she _never_ does that.”

“Um, no- let me tell her first,” he explains, squirming in his seat. What if his mum was rude to her over the phone? She could be very mean sometimes, at least to Martin. “I’m sure she’ll say yes.” _No, I’m not._

“If she doesn’t, you can always sneak out,” Jon says confidently, eating one of his torn bits of sandwich with a flourish. “That’s what I always do when Nan’s in a mood.”

“Sneak out? Really?” He couldn’t imagine doing it himself. Even Jon doesn’t seem that rebellious. “My mum would kill me.”

“One time I went so far that I got a ride home in a police car!” Jon says gleefully, as if it were a point of pride for him.

Martin gapes. “You got _arrested?_ I thought they didn’t arrest kids!” _Jon has a criminal record!_

“Oh no, they don’t,” Jon explains, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t just say he got picked up by the police, like he isn’t the _coolest_ kid Martin knows. “I just lost track of time and they found me. They did let me put on the siren, though.”

_“Whoa.”_

“Yeah.”

He’ll leave that bit out when he talks to his mum.

* * *

She doesn’t get home until six, which gives Martin plenty of time to prepare. He tidies up the whole house as best as he can, cleaning the mud off the floor by the door, making sure her tea is ready and in her favorite cup. He sits quietly in the kitchen until he hears the sound of a door opening and his mum’s grumbling.

She comes into the kitchen looking grumpy as usual, but she pauses when she sees him at the table. Her eyes scan the room and her face softens; Martin internally cheers. _She’s in a good mood!_ Good is a relative term, though, with his mum. More like she’s not apt to yell.

“You’ve cleaned,” she remarks, setting her purse down on the counter with a thump. “Good.” She ignores him in favor of loosening her hair and stretching, eventually settling down at the table and taking a sip of the tea. When closes her eyes in contentment, Martin internally beams with pride. “I’m too tired to fix dinner, so-”

“That’s fine,” Martin assures her, pasting a smile on his face. “I’m not very hungry anyway.”

There’s silence as she sips the rest of it, and his nerves almost get the better of him. _Ask. Ask, you idiot!_

“Um, I was a-actually wondering-” he starts, cursing the squeak in his voice. His mother finds it irritating. “A friend invited me over on Wednesday, and I was-”

“A friend?” At this she raises her eyebrow, an almost unbelieving smile on her face. “You’ve got a friend, now? First I’ve heard about it.”

“Yeah!” He’s encouraged now and smiles back. Mum should be proud of him! “His name’s Jon. Jon Sims. He lives a few blocks over with his nan-”

“What about his parents?” She asks, her face moving towards derision. “Run off, have they?” Mum always sees the worst in people, coming home and complaining about the patients sitting in the waiting room, as if their sickness is their fault. It makes Martin feel bad.

“N-No. They, um. They died.” She goes silent at that. Jon’s only mentioned his dad once, said he didn’t remember him very well. He never asks about Martin’s. Martin appreciates that.

“Terrible,” she says, sounding genuine. She doesn’t get sympathetic very often and Martin takes it as a good sign. He’s having a lot of luck tonight. “And this Jon- he’s a good kid?”

“Y-Yes! Very good. He said- he said you could call his grandmother, if you like.” He prays that she doesn’t, but he thinks that extra bit might help reassure her. Sometimes she gets nosy, but mostly she’s just lazy.

“No, that’s fine.” She waves him off with a dismissive hand and his heart soars. “At least it’ll give you something to do instead of hanging around here all the time. Just be back before it gets too dark.” It’s the most enthusiastic endorsement he’s ever gotten from her, and he gives her a beaming smile.

“Thank you, Mum!” In a fit of happiness he jumps from his seat, running over to give her cheek a kiss and then freezing as he realizes what he’s done. It’s not that she _hates_ affection, but, well- she doesn’t always like Martin touching her. This time she musters up a smile even as she gently pushes him away.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

* * *

“Brilliant. I’ll tell my Nan!” Jon smiles for the rest of the day. Martin’s never seen him do that before, and he can’t help but smile too. Both he and Jon are later admonished by the teacher, Martin for day-dreaming and Jon for constantly moving in his seat and turning around to smile at him. 

“I’m very excited,” Jon chatters in line on their way back from another unsuccessful gym class. “I mean, my house isn’t that great, but I’ve never had company before! We can...we can do our maths together!” He somehow makes homework sound thrilling. 

**“** I’m excited too.” He wonders what Jon’s house is like, maybe he’ll even see his _bedroom._ Will it be boring like Martin’s? Will he have a lot of toys? Jon doesn’t seem like the type, but who knows. He probably has lots of books.

Wednesday arrives far too slowly for Martin’s liking, and he’s excited to walk in the opposite direction as they exit the school together. They have to go through the nice part of town; maybe Jon lives in one of those big houses?

“My house is nothing like these,” Jon points out, answering his question. Martin’s having a hard time keeping pace with him- Jon’s half a foot shorter but he’s bounding along on the sidewalk, lengthening his strides and bouncing on his feet. “We’re a few streets over. I just take this way cause the big blue house on the other street has a dog.”

“You don’t like dogs?”

_“Hate_ them.” A look of disgust passes over his face, and he slows his pace as he continues to talk. “They’re loud, they’re jumpy, they’re big.” Well, there’s something they don’t have in common. Martin loves almost all animals, except maybe birds. “And I think I’m allergic.”

“Do you have any pets?” Martin asks. Oh God, what if Jon has a bird? What’s he going to do?

“No.” A familiar scowl passes over his face. “I’ve tried to bring home some stray cats, but Nan always says no. Says I’m ‘already enough of a handful.’”

After about ten minutes of Jon’s excited chatter, he tugs them over to the driveway of a nondescript house with a neatly trimmed lawn and pruned garden. Jon points to a rose bush.

“Roses,” he provides. Martin nods.

There’s a car in the driveway but Jon still has to unlock his door like Martin does. “Take off your shoes!” Jon practically shouts, causing Martin to flinch back as he follows his instruction. He watches as Jon beams at the wall. “Hello mum!”

Martin pauses, feeling uncomfortable, but Jon turns and notices his confused expression. He points to a photo on the wall of a smiling young woman and what must be a very young Jon. She’s beautiful, with dark hair and a bright smile just like Jon’s, even if her eyes are a bit sad. There’s a picture next to it with three people in it- one of them must be Jon’s dad. He looks stern but happy, an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Martin wonders if he was nice.

“Nan doesn’t like when I do that,” Jon leads him into a living room- it’s once again nicer than Martin’s, but almost completely devoid of personality. There’s some artwork, faded wallpaper; it looks exactly like Martin would imagine an old lady’s home to look. There are no toys. “She says it's childish. I just think she doesn’t like me greeting mum instead of dad.” He shrugs his backpack off his shoulder and onto the ground by a bare coffee table. “But I don’t remember him, so it feels too weird, y’know?”

Martin follows Jon’s example, placing his backpack on the ground and sitting down beside it. He hears the faint sound of the telly coming from upstairs and wonders if Jon’s nan is up there. Should he introduce himself? He doesn’t want it getting back to his mum that he was _rude._ There’s a clock ticking in the background, echoing in the silence of the room. It’s making him nervous, he doesn’t know what you’re supposed to do over someone else’s house. He could be doing something wrong. Martin fidgets as Jon takes out his homework and spreads it on the coffee table.

“Nan said she wouldn’t bother us,” Jon explains, gesturing upstairs. “Though I think she means she doesn’t want _us_ bothering _her._ She hates when I’m noisy. That’s why she gets me so many books.”

There’s a pretty impressive pile of books in the corner of the room, ranging from the incredibly thick to what seems to be a toddler’s board books. Jon rolls his eyes. “That’s the latest batch. Haven’t gone through it yet, but I’m sure there’s a few losers. She just picks up whatever she finds. She says I have ‘exacting and annoying standards.’”

Jon’s always telling him what his Nan thinks of him. Maybe she and his mum are more alike than he thought. He fumbles around in his backpack and takes out his own homework, staring at the multiplication problems he’s no good at. Mathematics isn’t his strong suit, he’s more suited to reading and writing. Maybe Jon could help him with it? He puts his pencil to the worksheet, squinting in thought as his friend does the same.

Jon, however, only answers a few before he sets the pencil down, biting at his lip. “Do you want something to eat? There’s some biscuits in the drawer, I could get them if you like!”

“Um, I’m fine, thanks.” Martin replies, giving him a smile and looking back down at the paper. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he also doesn’t want to impose or take away any of Jon’s food. He’s not that hungry anyway. “Maybe later.”

“Alright,” Jon says, turning back to his homework. He twirls his pencil, tapping it along the table. It’s very distracting. Martin tries to concentrate on the numbers in front of him, squinting harder at the page and murmuring the problems to himself in the hopes Jon will go back to his work.

He does. For one problem. Then he taps, and doodles, and erases, and hums. Martin tightens his grip on his pencil before finally giving in, looking up at Jon with an annoyed glare. “Is something wrong?”

Jon freezes and the pencil tapping thankfully ceases. “No,” he mumbles, putting his head down to the paper. He looks embarrassed and Martin feels bad for snapping. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin replies in a softer tone, though he doesn’t really mean it. “I just need to concentrate. I’m not very good at maths.”

“I can help!” Jon brightens, abandoning his own work to come over to Martin’s side and scooch up against him. “What’s the hard part?”

“Everything?” Martin laughs weakly, leaning into Jon’s side. It’s nice to be close to someone. It’s nice to have someone who wants to be close to _him._ Even if that someone wiggles in place and keeps nudging up against him with pointy elbows. Small price to pay.

“That’s cause you’re not multiplying _twice_ ,” Jon explains patiently, pointing to the problem with his gross, chewed up pencil. “You gotta do that when there’s big numbers.” He scribbles something down in a barely legible font, drawing arrows from each number. “See?”

And surprisingly, after a moment, Martin _does_ see. He’s always too embarrassed to ask questions during class, but having someone write it out and talk him through it is a lot easier. “Yeah, I think I do,” he replies, peering down at the page. “So I multiply it by the three first-”

“And then the four.”

“And then the four. And then add the two numbers together?” He pauses, attempting to do a bit of mental math before scribbling down his answer. Jon cheers, startling the pencil out of his hand.

“Yes! Yes! You’ve got it,” Jon yells, bouncing in place excitedly. Martin hopes they aren’t disturbing his nan. “Now the next one!”

They finish out the rest in the same fashion, Jon never losing his enthusiasm for each problem Martin solves. It’s slightly embarrassing, but Martin finishes faster than he ever has before. He likes having someone around to help him out. Mum never bothers.

“Are you going to do yours now?” he asks Jon, who hadn’t been writing on his paper at all. He gets a nonchalant shrug in response. 

“Later. Let’s do something fun.” Martin has a feeling Jon’s not going to fill that worksheet out. “I think I want a biscuit now.”

He watches as Jon bounds into the kitchen, the clattering of drawers and the crinkle of plastic soon following. He emerges with a pack of store-brand biscuits, the kind Mum picks up to save money. It’s nice to see he’s not the only one who has them. 

Jon’s already got one in his mouth as he sits down, handing Martin a napkin and the bag. “Don’t get crumbs on the floor. Nan’ll have a fit.”

Yeah, she’s _definitely_ like Martin’s mum.

“I don’t have lots of toys,” Jon says, spraying biscuit all over the carpet in direct opposition of his own rule. “But we could read. Or play cards. Or watch the telly, but there’s never anything good on now. ‘Cept for those stupid game shows.”

Martin perks up. _Cards._ Now that’s something he could do. Ages ago, when his dad was still around, he tried to teach Martin a few card games. It’s one of the only memories he has of him. He agrees to cards and Jon scurries off again, coming back with a beat up deck. 

And they play.

“I don’t understand why you keep _winning,”_ Jon whines, throwing down his cards in despair. After what seemed like an unending game of War, Martin suggested poker, something he _shouldn’t_ know how to play. It’s a grown up game, Martin, you’re just like your father, Martin. But it’s fun, and he relishes the chance to teach Jon something in turn.

But Jon’s really, _really_ bad at it. He can’t really keep track of the different hands, and his face betrays every little emotion. Martin can practically read his cards with one look, and his pile of pencils, biscuits, and other increasingly imaginative items grew ever larger, while Jon’s left with a half ripped eraser and a dingy little cat pin that he refuses to give over. Still, Jon’s too stubborn to give up, and Martin _thinks_ he’s having fun. He hasn’t fidgeted once.

“You’re new at this, you’ll get better.” Martin doubts it, but he’s not going to tell Jon that. “I’m just happy I have someone to play against. Mum doesn’t like me playing cards.”

“Nan would probably rather I play cards.” Jon rolls his eyes, leaning back against the drab sofa. “‘Whatever keeps you occupied and out of trouble,’ she says. Least I’m not locked in my room again.” Martin’s never been locked in his room. He thinks he’d prefer it to being in the living room with his mum, sometimes.

After a few more rounds, the light in the room begins to dim and he glances nervously at the clock. “Um, I think I should be going now. I’m supposed to get home before it gets dark.” It’s already dinner time, and he doesn’t think Jon’s nan is going to feed them. Jon hasn’t said anything, anyway. “B-But I liked this! We should do it again, if you like.”

“Maybe at your house!” Jon bounces up, bounding towards the door. Martin cringes at the thought of Jon in his tiny little flat, where the lights flicker and the floor’s never clean and the neighbors bang on the walls.

“Y-Yeah, maybe!” He throws his backpack over his shoulder, nudging his feet into his shoes. “Tell your Nan I said thank you for having me over.”

“Sure,” Jon says in a dismissive way that means he won’t be passing on the message. He’s putting his own shoes on impatiently, shoving his feet in them in a way that looks kind of painful. 

“Um, you don’t have to walk me,” Martin assures him. Then Jon will have to walk back alone, and what if he gets lost? Jon has a penchant for doing that, it seems. “I’m not that far-”

“I’ll walk you halfway, then,” Jon insists, straightening up and looking at him seriously. “Don’t want you to run into that dog.”

Martin nods, though he’s rather fond of dogs. It’ll be nice to have Jon’s company for some of the way. “Alright, if you’re sure. Thanks.” Jon nods and moves towards the door before pausing, looking back at the wall.

“G’bye, Mum!” He presses a kiss to his finger and brings it to the photo, smudging the glass a bit. He turns around after he does this, and eyes Martin expectantly.

“Er, goodbye Jon’s mum,” he attempts with an awkward wave. 

Jon gives him a critical look. “You should probably call her Mrs. Sims.”

* * *

Fall turns to winter turns to spring. Martin has a friend. 

He has a friend he can eat lunch with, tell stories with, do projects with, pass notes with, get in trouble with. Exchange gifts with. Jon passes on a book of poetry that his Nan got him. Martin finds enough loose change to finally replace that pencil he broke. They’re inseparable.

When it gets warmer, they play outside. Jon shows him all of his favorite spots to hide and sometimes they stay out until nightfall. Martin gets in trouble more than once for this, but when he’s grounded Jon will walk him all the way home from school, so they can still have time together. They never play at Martin’s flat despite Jon asking multiple times, he always gives the excuse that there’s more room at Jon’s house. It’s true.

In school they make a good pair. Jon helps him with homework, Martin learns tricks to help Jon sit still. Martin’s grades improve and Jon gets in trouble less, now that Martin always provides him with something to occupy his hands. People don’t pick on Jon as much, now that Martin walks behind him in line. _My height’s good for_ something, _Mum._

But eventually Marcus turns his sights on Martin, clearly seeking some sort of revenge from the football incident. It finally goes beyond teasing and gets physical when Marcus confronts him after school, pushing him against a wall after Jon and him had gone their separate ways. Martin’s afraid to push him off, he doesn’t want to _hurt_ him again and he’s contemplating the best way out of it when he sees Jon approach from behind, bounding towards them and leaping onto Marcus’s back. When Marcus yelps and tries to throw him off, Jon _bites_ him. Like, actually _bites._

Jon gets in big trouble for that one, but Marcus leaves them both alone after that. 

One day, towards the end of the year, Jon doesn’t come to school. That one day turns into another, and then another. Jon doesn’t phone, like he sometimes does in the afternoon when Martin’s mum isn’t home. He must be sick, has to be. Maybe he’s in bed, delirious with fever and not to be bothered. But what if something _bad’s_ happened? Martin’s got a weird feeling about it; he’s never been separated from Jon for this long and it doesn’t feel right. He’s starting to get worried.

He gets his answer at the end of the week, when Jon meets him on his way home from school at the corner of Martin’s street. He looks bad, _awful,_ standing there in his baggy jacket with dark shadows under his eyes and his arms curled around himself protectively. 

“Jon!” Martin runs up to him, goes to hug him but Jon flinches back. Maybe he’s contagious? Martin hopes that’s it, and covers up the hurt with a weak smile. “Are-Are you okay? You haven’t been to school for a while.” Jon looks down at the ground and sniffs, taking a moment to respond. Martin gets even more worried; this close up, he can see how pale and ill Jon looks.

“S-Something’s happened,” Jon says, his voice barely above a whisper and so unlike the Jon he knows. “I’m not going to be back for a while.” Martin’s chest tightens and his heart speeds up. It must be really, _really_ bad. _I knew something was wrong. Why didn’t I call?_

“What is it?” He moves closer, taking Jon’s stillness as an invitation and putting a hand on his arm. “Was it your Nan? Is she okay?”

“Nan’s fine.” Jon’s not meeting his eyes and Martin notices he’s shaking under his hand. Jon’s almost never scared, unless there’s a dog. He guides him to sit down near the curb and Jon lets him, uncomfortably pliant in his hands. “It’s- it was one of my _books,_ Martin. And no one- no one believes me!” His words become high and strangled as he dissolves into sobs, putting his head in his hands. Martin stares for a moment before taking Jon in his arms, squeezing him against his chest. They’ve only hugged a couple of times- Jon gets weird about touches he doesn’t initiate- but he’s leaning into this one, so he must need it. Something _very_ bad must have happened, thought Martin’s at a loss of what it could be. _A book?_

It takes several minutes before he calms down enough to explain. He starts and stops, sometimes taking a while to pull himself together. Martin’s patient through it all, he always has been when Jon tells his stories. And...it _has_ to be a story, it can’t be true. Some old man’s library book coming to life and eating Charlie, the bully that lives next door? It sounds like some sort of revenge fantasy. And yet...it’s Jon. Jon wouldn’t lie to him, Jon wears his heart on his sleeve. And he’s so clearly upset about it, so it _must_ have happened. 

Still...a murderous spider? That’s something straight out of a nightmare. And he thinks he would’ve heard if a kid disappeared. Mum would’ve went off about it, at least. He hasn’t seen any missing posters, heard about it from a teacher or a kid in class. It doesn’t make sense.

But Jon looks at him so earnestly with those big, pleading eyes. “You believe me, don’t you?”

He shouldn’t, but he does. It sounds fake, but it feels...well, it feels very true. Martin doesn’t know how to explain it. There’s a building sense of dread in his chest, but not like when he watches scary movies and gets upset. This feels _real._

“Yes,” he replies with all of the sincerity he can muster. “I do.” Jon falls into his arms again, sobbing with relief. It’s enough to make Martin cry as well, though he tries to keep it quiet. _Jon’s_ the one who had to go through it, not him. He squeezes his friend tighter and tries to discreetly wipe away his tears. Eventually, Jon pulls away.

“I’ll be out of class for a while, I keep...I keep having ‘episodes.’ I’m not fit for school right now.” It sounds like an echo of his grandmother’s words, and Martin hates it. “Maybe I’ll come back but...I’m not going to be able to see people for a while. Nan doesn’t trust me not to ‘go off’ again.” He wipes his nose on his sleeve, and takes a few deep breaths before reaching into his pocket and pulling something out.

“So I brought you this. To remember me by, in the meantime.”

It’s that little button, with the silly looking cat on it. He remembers it from their poker pile, how hesitant Jon was to let go of it. Jon told him about it one night, as he was turning it over in his hand. It’s something his mum had won him from a dumb little arcade game, before she died. 

And he’s giving it to Martin.

“Are you sure?” He says, hesitating to take it from his hand. It’s one of Jon’s very few, precious mementos.

“Yes,” Jon replies very seriously as he places it in Martin’s hand and closes his fist around it. “But just for now. You can return it when you see me again.”

“Okay.” This time, Martin can’t contain his tears and Jon’s the one to throw his arms around him, holding him tight. He’s losing his only friend, and even if it’s just for a little bit, it still _hurts._ They were inseparable. Martin had been getting used to having someone around. Jon squeezes him again, hard, and Martin thinks this is the longest time they’ve ever touched.

It’s also the last time.

The next day, Martin watches as the teacher empties Jon’s desk, throwing out all of his chewed up pencils and crumpled doodles that Martin later fishes out of the trashcan. The other kids whisper, throwing Martin furtive glances when they think he’s not looking. Jon doesn’t come back for the rest of the school year. In June, Martin’s mother loses her job again.

They move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grace (speakerunfolding on tumblr) made beautiful art of our sad little boys from the end of Chapter One, please check it out and cry over it with me: https://speakerunfolding.tumblr.com/post/643248509239345152/hi-im-obsessed-with-inseparable-by


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time skip.

Martin doesn’t hear from Jon again. 

After a few weeks, he would phone Jon’s house, but it either went unanswered or Jon’s Nan said he was busy. Apparently, he’d told her that Martin believed him, and she was clear she didn’t want anyone ‘indulging his fantasies.’ Before he moves, he visits Jon’s house but there’s no one home. Martin sends a letter that does not get a response. It hurts more than he liked to admit. 

He knows when he’s not wanted.

He wonders a lot during those years how Jon is doing. It’s a passing thought, one that he dismisses as it causes too much pain. He eventually drops out of school to take care of his mum as she worsens, and his life is consumed with making ends meet. He has no time for play or stupid fantasies. He needs to grow up. So he pads his CV with whatever is relevant for the job he’s applying for, does odd, occasionally dangerous jobs that no one else wants to do. He stocks shelves. He cleans houses. He works at a pier off the books. It’s exhausting.

And still, Martin carries that stupid, faded pin on his messenger bag wherever he goes. He doesn’t think he’ll ever see Jon again, but in case he does...well. It was important to him. Which means it’s important to Martin.

The next few years are tough. He’s a kid; it’s hard being the breadwinner, but someone has to do it. His mum took care of him and now it’s his turn, albeit much earlier than he expected. 

He looks Jon up occasionally. It doesn’t yield much of anything until he happens upon a picture of him in a uni paper online. _Oxford._ Good for him. He’s won a scholarship, he’s getting a degree in history. Martin knew he would succeed, given the right support. Martin hopes he found it.

And he’s _grown._ Not in height, no, he still looks pretty scrawny in the photo. But he’s got fine-boned features, a sharp jawline with those dark, inquisitive eyes. The awkward smile and an overly baggy sweatshirt- that’s the Jon he knows. But now he wears his hair long, tucked behind his ear in a half up, half down style. He’s got earrings, a small choker around his neck. He looks _cool,_ like someone Martin would hesitate to approach in a bar. Jon probably wouldn’t like Martin anymore, now that he’s educated and probably has loads of friends. He’s way out of Jon’s league. 

But he often thinks about the story Jon told him. He’s flipped back and forth on it over the years. Perhaps Jon witnessed something so traumatic that his mind made up a fantastical story to deal with it. Did he actually read that book about Mr. Spider? Do things like that exist? Martin likes to think they don't, but he still freezes whenever he sees a spider. He thinks about that boy, Charlie- was it Charlie? And how he had a family. A little sister.

And how no one looked for him. No one acknowledged it at the end of the year. He approached the sister, once, in line at the cafeteria. She stared at him blankly when he mentioned a brother. It chilled Martin to his core, that look in her eyes.

So yes, something _did_ happen. And in spite of everything, Martin wanted to figure out what. Jon deserves an answer, even if he can never give it to him.

When he sees the advert for an assistant position at the library of the Magnus Institute, he applies. He looks up sample resumes, makes his CV look as impressive as possible. The money offered isn’t much, but it’s enough to help him and his mum get by. It’s not even a question, really. This is where he belongs.

His interview goes smoothly enough, though Mr. Bouchard’s unnerving gaze never leaves him. Martin comes away shaking, as if he’s been judged and found wanting. And yet he hears back from someone not a day later, offering him the position. 

The library’s austere, beautiful. The job’s not particularly hard, he probably didn’t need to give himself quite so many qualifications, but it keeps him busy. He gets along with most of his coworkers, but between his duties and taking care of his mother, it doesn’t leave much time for research. For looking into what happened to Jon. For finding answers. 

People come and go, giving statements about their experiences. Some of them are normal, if nervous folk, just wanting to get things off their chest. Many of their stories are proven false. 

But some of them...some of them are _terrifying._ He’s heard horror stories from Artefact Storage, a place he steers clear of. He’s seen a man come in and then _die_ in the breakroom. Lung cancer, they said. Martin wonders.

And then he hears the name _Leitner._

A researcher mentioned it off-handedly in the break room, causing Martin to drop his mug in the sink with a loud clatter. He turned around, interrogating the man for every possible bit of information. He thinks he might have made an enemy, but it’s worth it. _Jurgen Leitner._ He’s got a whole library full of books like _A Guest for Mr. Spider,_ some of which are apparently even worse. _So it’s true. Something_ did _happen to Jon. And it’s that fucker’s fault._

He strikes a deal with Artefact Storage. Sonja always liked him. She promises to let him know of any Leitners received, particularly if they deal with spiders. A few come in over the next few years, but none of them are similar to Jon’s. Equally horrifying, yes. But no _Mr. Spider._

And then, in 2012, Jon starts working at the Magnus Institute _._

He hears about it from Rosie, who’s going on about the new hire that Mr. Bouchard thinks ‘quite promising.’ She was always ready with a bit of gossip, if you ran a few errands or did her a favor. Martin tried to do that often.

“Didn’t look like much to me, honestly,” she confides in him as she leans over her desk. “A bit stuck up, one of those Oxford types. _Jonathan Sims,_ he said his name was.”

Martin freezes, his mind going blank as his heart stops in his chest. He must have gone pale because Rosie hurries out from behind her desk, guiding him to a chair. _He’s here. He’s_ here.

And sure enough, two weeks later, he is.

Jon’s in the research department, which has its own section further off in the library. Martin sees him mumbling at his desk with that one girl, Sasha James. Sometimes he smiles. Sometimes he laughs. It’s a wonderful sound. He still fidgets, still chews on his pencils. _Nasty habit._ He wants answers too. Martin _knew_ he would never give up on that.

He waits until he runs into Jon naturally, he doesn’t want to seem too eager. One day they happen upon each other in the break room, and Martin fidgets with the kettle while Jon gets something out of the fridge. He turns around, empty mug in hand and runs straight into Jon, almost knocking the poor man off his feet. Jon yelps and puts a hand on the counter for support, looking up at Martin with anger in his eyes. Martin apologizes, waits for the recognition.

It never comes. All he gets is a terse “watch where you’re going” as Jon exits the room, mumbling under his breath. Martin could almost cry.

Has he really changed all that much? He’s shot up in height again, of course, but he still has the same features of his childhood. Or maybe- maybe Jon _wants_ to ignore him. Maybe Martin’s overblowing their friendship. The friendship he’s thought about all these years. The stupid _pin._ _How embarrassing._ He contemplates throwing it out but can’t bring himself to do it. It was important to Jon, once. It’s important to him.

His theory is proven correct when Jon continues to ignore him in the hallways, barely sparing him a glance. Martin checks out books for him several times- nothing. He’s being ignored. Jon wants nothing to do with him, doesn’t even look him in the eyes. Martin’s a non-entity. And it hurts so very badly.

And then Jon gets the promotion. _Head Archivist._ Nobody expects it, everyone gossips about it. Jon doesn’t have the greatest of reputations, though Martin tries to defend him. He’ll be great at the job, he says to anyone who will listen. He’ll be better than _Gertrude,_ at least. He has to be.

Elias calls Martin to his office shortly afterward, informs him he’ll be transferred to the Archives with a knowing smile. He tries to refuse, tells him Jon doesn’t need another assistant, that he’s not qualified for it but Elias insists. And now Martin’s going to be working for a man he thinks about all the time, a man who seems to want nothing to do with him. He’s unbearably nervous. 

On his first day he almost stops to pet a _dog_ on his way in. _Stupid, stupid._ He can just imagine walking into the archives, hair all over him, and Jon barricading himself in his office. Martin doesn’t need to give him any more reasons to dislike him. 

What he’s not expecting, however, is for Jon to be sitting in the break room when he arrives, a smile lighting up his face as soon as he walks in. Martin balks at the friendly greeting, freezing in the doorway.

“Blackwood,” Jon says, and how much _fondness_ there is in it. He almost melts at the sound. “Martin Blackwood. I knew the name sounded familiar.” He gets out of his seat, comes close as if to hug him, still smiling that bright smile. He’s bouncing on his feet, like he used to do as a child. “I can’t believe you’ve worked here all this time!” 

Martin pauses. _What?_ That can’t be right. Is Jon pulling one over on him?

“Seriously?” he squeaks, hating the high-pitch his voice lands on. “You- you’ve _seen_ me, Jon. I-I thought you hated me.”

Jon blinks, looking up at him in confusion, as if the very thought is foreign to him. “Why would I hate you? We were- you were one of my _only_ friends. I wish you’d said something, approached me.” _For fuck’s sake._

“Jon, you’ve seen me _multiple_ times.” Martin’s starting to get annoyed. Hell, is the man _really_ that oblivious? This has to be a prank. “Every time you’ve ignored me or just, just _pushed_ past me. It’s not ridiculous to assume that you don’t like me.”

“I-I-” Jon’s at a loss for words, inching back with a look of horror. What is he playing at? He can’t be serious. “I never recognized you! I would’ve- if you’d said your _name,_ I would’ve known-”

Martin rolls his eyes, already tired of the joke. “Jon, I look almost exactly the same. Just...bigger.”

“Yeah,” Jon replies, looking at him almost reverently. “You got tall.”

“You didn’t.”

And Jon...Jon _laughs._ It’s a high, adorable sound, the way he used to when Martin made fun of their classmates or did a particularly nasty impression of their teachers. He _missed_ that. Martin finds himself joining in; it’s awkward, hysterical even and he’s still not sure what the hell is going on, but Jon’s in front of him and smiling and that’s all that matters, for now.

Jon finally calms enough to speak, straightening himself out and looking suddenly nervous. “To be honest, I-I don’t remember much from that time. After my Nan pulled me out, I had- I was having a bad time. Blocked out a lot of things. Except for-” he hesitates, looking at Martin with trepidation.

“Except for Mr. Spider.” He finishes softly, and he instinctively reaches out for Jon’s hand. Jon immediately takes it, and it feels so warm and right in his own. “I know. I never did either. It’s kind of why I’m here, to be honest.”

“Really?” Jon perks up, looking up at him in a sort of awe, like he did all those years ago in gym class. His grip tightens. “You...you came here? For me?”

“Well, not _just_ for you,” Martin replies with a sheepish grin. “I do need to earn a living and support- nevermind. But yeah, when I saw the opening, I had to apply. I thought maybe...maybe I could help you.”

“Oh.” Jon looks misty eyed at the admission, and Martin swallows down the emotion that builds in his throat. He shifts his bag, pointing down to that dingy little pin. Jon stares in amazement, bringing a hand up to his mouth.

“You kept it.”

Martin blinks. “Of course. You said you wanted it back.”

And then he’s got an armful of Jon, who’s thrown himself around Martin like he did all those years ago, right before they parted. He hasn’t been touched with such love in a very, very long time. Martin returns the embrace, years of unrealized affection in his arms.

“Whoa there, Jonny boy! Who’s this, then?”

Martin turns his head to see a tall, handsome man in the doorway- Tim Stoker. Jon pulls away suddenly, drying his eyes as discreetly as possible and morphing his face back into some semblance of neutrality. Martin already misses him.

“This is Martin Blackwood,” Jon announces. “He’s going to be working with us as well. And he’s-” he pauses, smiling shyly at Martin. “He’s my friend.”

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you (and my giftee!) enjoy. I haven't written anything this long in one go, so it's a bit new to me. You'll have to tell me if you like. Child Jon and Martin has a lot of potential for fun and angst. Any mistakes are my own!
> 
> You can find me @voiceless-terror on tumblr. Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Through the Years](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29656977) by [Freckles_From_Brooklyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freckles_From_Brooklyn/pseuds/Freckles_From_Brooklyn)




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